wings_that_can_t_fly neesh I have two unusual virtues. The first is that I attract birds. Smaller birds roost on my shoulders, or nest in my hair, larger birds circle me as I walk, rest by me as I sit. When I sleep in the wilderness they protect me and keep me warm. I will never want for food where owls can find rabbits, eagles carry off game or gulls fish. The second is that I give off light. It is only very faint, too dim to be seen in daylight, but in the night I intensify, and I quite unquestionably glow. I have never needed candles, even when the moon is dark. Ordinary eyes need darkness for rest, but fortunately my eyes are not ordinary, or else they would always ache. My eyes are pale blue, but the blue is simply a film, a filter, a receptacle that holds other colours. In my eyes you can see purples, golds, reds and greens. Look into my eyes and you find sea and sky. I... I did a foolish thing. I should have always kept my two advantages at hand, because life is difficult. But I went where no birds could follow, and no light could penetrate. I followed my father into the darkness, because it was all I could do, and we were caught. I was helpless to stop it. Now we are outside, and I am light again, and my companions have returned, but all the same we are trapped. "Not long now, my son," my dad promises me every day, plotting and scheming our escape, patiently gathering whatever he can find to help us flee. He asked why I don't get the birds to carry us out – even if he cut our arms, an eagle could set us free – but I reminded him I don't control the birds. They flock to me of their own will, and they leave me where I am of that same will. I must be here for a reason. I think that annoys him. I think he's also getting tired of the cawing and screeching, the clawing and flapping about, that I've always been accustomed to. I think his red raw eyes would appreciate some darkness too, which I obstruct. I think he is growing tired of me, growing desperate for escape. I wish I could help, but what can I bring other than an endless supply of birds' feathers and unused candles? It's hardly like we could escape with only those. "I've made us some wings out of candle wax and bird feathers," he told me. "What I figure is we can hold them above our heads, run and jump off the edge, and kind of glide down into the sea, then we can start swimming, or if we're lucky a boat will pick us up. Think you can manage that, Icarus?" Flight is in my veins, in my heart, in my eyes. I do not think I can glide, but perhaps I can soar. I nod, and he hands me golden wings for my maiden flight. He jumps first, to make sure the wings are sturdy enough, and because he cannot spend another second trapped with me, and steadily descends, ever so slightly downwards, inevitably to hit the water and doubtlessly to safety. I said my goodbyes, but I doubt he heard. I cannot live his life. I cannot live this life. I laugh and throw down the mockery of wings, the imitation of flight he gave me. My own wings rip through my shirt as I flex them, I step off the edge, feel the dizzying current as I fall and fall and fall, until I catch an upwind and soar. My brethren follow me faithfully, urging me ever upwards, upwards; a seagull drops the fish he had held for me, because I won't be needing it any more. I set my glowing eyes on my target, and fly faster, so fast I leave the others behind, so fast that only my trail of light can be seen. So fast that my feathers start to burn, my wings fall apart. My eyes are flame red, and still I go faster, faster, higher, until I break through my skin and leave it to drop in the waters below, and still, I go faster. 060409 what's it to you? who go blather from